


I thought you'd be pleased

by jazztrousers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 07:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazztrousers/pseuds/jazztrousers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock does a range of ridiculous things to try and get John to forgive him. (Post-Richenbach)<br/>Just a short, silly thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I thought you'd be pleased

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What to do When Your Flatmate is Homicidal](https://archiveofourown.org/works/383020) by [hyacinth_sky747](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyacinth_sky747/pseuds/hyacinth_sky747). 



It has been four days and thirteen hours since I “came back from the dead” and John’s reactions to my presence are still wholly negative.

His initial reaction, lasting for about an hour and a half, was blind rage. He punched me in the face so many times I ended up on my knees, shielding my face with my forearms in quite a pitiful manner. I didn’t want to hit him back or run away, but I didn’t want him to punch me anymore, I could feel blood trickling out of my left nostril.

I kept apologising. I explained and explained until I was practically blue in the face, but John just kept swearing at me and calling me names and trying to hit me. I was confused.

“You asked me to stop being dead. I thought you’d be pleased.” I said quietly.

He tried to hit me again.

 

* * *

 

After the rage, came the silence. The silence is worse, even I know that hatred is better than indifference. After confounding all of his instructions for me to fuck off, go fuck myself, get fucked and many other similar ways of telling me to vacate 221B, by explaining to him that Mrs. Hudson said I could have my old room back and that I had in no way violated our tenancy agreement, he agreed to let me stay. But he is treating me like I am invisible.

It’s extremely distressing, and what makes it even worse is that I find it as such. I don’t find things distressing unless they are related to John.

I mildly resent him for it. Love, sentiment, chemical defects that make a person weak, vulnerable. He has given them to me, like some awful norrovirus that I somehow contracted by having him be so bloody fantastic all the time.

When I was arrested, John chinned that fat, Northern superintendent for calling me ‘a bit of a weirdo’, and I almost swooned like a heroine in a romance novel. _That was so romantic_ , I thought to myself as they slammed John next to me and slapped the handcuffs on him. Then there was chaos, guns and running and I didn’t have any time to think about it until I was on the phone to John, who was on the pavement outside St Barts, whilst I was on the fucking rooftop, about to fucking jump.

I made my worst deduction ever: _I am in love with John. And once I do this, he will be out of my life forever._

 

I lied down the phone to him, but the crying was real. He made me cry real tears, and I hated him for it.

* * *

 

I named myself after him, when I made my new identity. Hamish, like he’d suggested that time he’d stupidly thought I was interested in Irene Adler and had become jealous. Oh, I liked that he was jealous, I didn’t know why, but it tickled me. I wanted to make him so jealous he exploded.

I chose the surname Carpenter, like carpenter bees. Bees are so wonderfully secure in their purpose. Pollenate, serve their queen, do their mindless tasks, do their waggle dance to tell the other bees about other hives.

* * *

 

I have formulated a plan, and it goes thus: I am going to make John forgive me.

* * *

 

John was not amused when I presented him with a cache of stolen ashtrays. Nor when I went to the shop naked but for a sheet around my middle. All good data, it means the same thing won’t work twice. It has to be something new.

 

* * *

 

When I was dead, I was chasing down a person I suspected to work for Moriarty, one of his criminal web, I found myself at a drugs lab. I was looking for a strangulated corpse of a man in his mid-thirties, and I instead found a huge pile of cocaine.  
My stomach hurt in that strange way that it had when John had hurt that man for mildly insulting me. I haven’t done drugs in years, but sometimes I miss them, like one might miss an ex-partner.

I’m not ashamed to say I wanted to shove my face in that pile of cocaine like I have seen men in pornography do to a woman’s cleavage. It looked _wonderful_ , like freshly fallen snow.

I didn’t.

 

* * *

 

I have bought John a car. Well, it is a little more complicated than that. I have bought a car that John hates, a Fiat Punto. Why does he hate them? I haven’t the faintest idea. Not being interested in cars, I find them all to be equal in terms of aesthetics, but for some bizarre reason John hates this particular make of car. Especially in red, he always complains if we pass one in the street.

“John! John, look!” I called from the street, and after so much shouting I was concerned the neighbours might call the police, John opened the window.

“Sherlock? What are you—why do you have a hammer?”

“I bought you a car, John!” I exclaimed, gleefully.

“You bought me that ugly piece of shit?” He asked sceptically.

“Yes! Look!” I said, and started swinging the hammer. It took me a few hits but I shattered the windscreen with a very satisfying smashing noise.

“Do you want to smash it too?” I asked, turning around, but John had shut the window on me.

I was just a foolish man in love, battering an ugly car in the middle of the street.

I felt like an idiot, and it wasn’t nice. Maybe I should try to make other people feel like idiots a bit less often.

* * *

 

What am I saying? I was upset because I’m a genius but I let John make me _feel_ stupid. Other people _are_ stupid, me pointing it out isn’t cruel, it’s just truthful.

However, I’ve missed something vital in making John forgive me. I must sweep him off his feet with a romantic gesture.

 

* * *

 

I have written John a song. I often compose on my violin when I’m trying to think, but this song has lyrics, and they are all about not wearing any pants. I have this hunch that getting John’s forgiveness is tied up in getting him to laugh. I have been trying to get a laugh out of him all day by comically injuring myself around the flat, but it hasn’t worked yet.

Wait until he hears my No Pants song. Wait until he hears how many verses there are, and how rude they are. John also finds it funny when I swear because I don’t do it very often.

 

* * *

 

I had gotten to the verse of ‘No Pants’ that is sung entirely in Latin when John suddenly stood up and wrestled my bow out of my hand. For a second I thought he might be about to destroy my violin and I felt a surge of protectiveness.

“Sherlock. Enough.” He sounded tired, and annoyed.

I gulped audibly, fearing more shouting and punching.

John sighed, and shook his head.

“Twat.”

Then he grabbed me by the lapels of my blazer and kissed me so hard my violin fell to the ground.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by [this fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/383020/chapters/626541). I'd recommend reading it, it's a lot better than this one let's be real 
> 
> The song Sherlock plays to John about wearing no pants [is a real song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cu2nmeKvN1I). But I thought he'd sing it in Latin because he's a public schoolboy like that.


End file.
